The Cut

The suit is too tight in the armpits.

I stand over the sink,

scraping the three-day shadow

away from a mouth that doesn't want to talk.

The razor is a cheap, pivoting lie.

I dropped it, and the blue lube strip

melted into the white bowl,

a smear of chemical sky.

The nick happened near the earlobe—

a hot, tiny puncture.

I pressed the toilet paper square

against the pulse,

watching the red circle get bigger

than the wound ever was.